The Black Cats Read Online Free Page B

it.”
    We
entered and climbed the winding staircase to his writing chamber on the middle
floor. Instead of officing in the parlor, as he’d done on Coates, he’d taken to
working in solitude. I believed this was for the better. Not only did the eastern
window capture more light, it looked out onto a splendid stretch of road. Whenever
the ink stopped flowing, he would stand, stretch, and watch the parade of
humanity. This gave him the thrust to finish his work. I, too, loved the view. Swifts
would fly in at candle-light, pricking my ears with chatter, and roost inside the
chimneys of Spring Garden. I imagined Auntie Sass slinking along the rooftops,
hunting them into oblivion.
    Eddy lifted
the window sash, and I settled onto his desk to supervise the preparations. Two
pens he owned: one of common goose, which he used for hasty notes, the other of
crow, which he used for manuscripts, official correspondence, and so forth. The
crow offered a finer point that made writing in a small, neat hand easier. As
expected, he plucked the black quill from its wire holder, withdrew his
penknife from his pocket, and shaved the nib to his liking. The scraping lulled
me into a purr. Once he’d prepared the instrument, he uncorked the ink, a
blackish-brownish liquid that smelled of rust, and laid out a clean piece of paper,
cut the day before from a long scroll. The day’s writing could begin.
    He
dipped his pen and drew marks across the top of the page. “‘The Black Cat,’” he
said. “An obvious title but a fitting one, eh, Catters?”
    I hopped
on his shoulder and surveyed the work. The scrawl looked like a dribbling of
weak tea now but would soon dry to a strong, fine brown—the color of Eddy’s
hair. I meowed with approval and resumed my spot on the desk. He stroked my
back then sat forward to write, completing several lines before stopping again.
“Listen, Catters, and tell me if I have captured the requisite voice.” He took
up the paper and read aloud: “For the most wild, yet most homely narrative
which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would
I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence.
Yet, mad am I not—and very surely do I not dream.”
    I stretched
and yawned, curling my tongue. Life was much too comfortable to pursue a man
who made sausage of cats. Although something about the challenge piqued my
curiosity. I wondered if I had enough stamina to chase such a villain. Alas, I’d
regained some—not all—of the weight I’d lost last fall. Blasted pot
roast dinners. It was almost as if Muddy wanted me to eat them, the way she left them on the sideboard time and again. I rolled
on my back, exposing my ample mid-section. Eddy tickled my stomach with his quill,
and I batted the feather more out of obligation than interest. I shut my eyes
and waited for the pleasant scratch of goose nib on paper once again.
    Some period
afterward, light played across my eyelids. I awoke to find Eddy slumped in his
chair, the penknife—not the quill—between his fingers. He turned
the sharp object, catching a ray of sun with the blade. Any other day, his
fascination with the knife would have raised little concern. Today, however,
was not any other day, not with a one-eyed cat planted in the garden.
    “What
would possess a man, Cattarina? What?” He looked at me with pained expression.
“I could not fathom it, unless…” He placed the penknife in a leather case that
he tucked in his jacket pocket. “Come, Catters. Jolley Spirits awaits.”
    I accompanied
him out of concern, for I did not like Mr. Jolley, nor did I like the effect of
Mr. Jolley’s spirits on my companion. They dulled my companion’s wits, a fact apparent
to everyone but him. We descended the steps and entered the kitchen where he cobbled
together bread, cheese, and ham pulled from the cooling cabinet. He finished by
heaping the concoction with a generous portion of mustard and sour